Pillow Down
by SashaLikaMusica
Summary: Morning sex with Beca is possibly Chloe's favorite thing in the world - the way her lips part to draw breath; the sleepiness in her eyes that morphs into pleasure. It's the most peaceful kind of sex they have. Pure Bechloe fluff. Mature one-shot.


**A/N: Hey my darlings. I know this was first posted as a Heya fic but when I wrote it it was originally Bechloe and I decided I liked it better that way, so here you are. Enjoy. Reviews are much appreciated.**

 _ **Bechloe won.**_

* * *

Chloe loves morning sex with Beca. It's calm and peaceful and somehow muted, though the sounds they make aren't always muffled by pillows or the warm press of a palm. That slow, easy kind of wakeup call gives her mind and body peace despite the languid pleasure, and she treasures every moment of it: the way that the early sunlight filters in through the curtains, dotting lacy patterns on their skin; the soft rustle of the sheets as their bodies move in tandem, unrushed and peaceful. She cherishes the way that Beca smiles up at her, so full of love and lazy adoration, and the way she blinks slowly at the arched vision of her with hazy morning eyes.

(Her heart threatens to burst with all of the love she has for Beca welling up inside her chest, and it grows so full that sometimes she's actually afraid that it will break, because she didn't think that it was possible to love someone this much.)

Chloe's body calls out for an anchor, and Beca answers her with quivering hands, brushes fingertips up and down the sides of her ribcage with a touch so feather light that she's hardly sure it's even there. There's something so feeble and yet so potent in that gesture, something unstable and yet somehow secure, and neither of them speak of it aloud, but everything else – their shared gaze, and their touches, and the soft sounds that escape their lips – speak volumes enough of their own. It's a soul-baring experience, Chloe has found, and nothing about it comes with storybook-like perfection; their bodies are heavy, their faces puffy with sleep, and the air between them is a little stale. Yet somehow, it manages to be perfection. And outsider might fail to comprehend, but to them, the mere continuation of each other's presence is enough to instill a contentedness in them that will not fade with years or familiarity.

Chloe's hands grip the headboard, feeling the smooth curvature of the wood beneath the creases of her palms, and grinds down when Beca bucks her hips up to meet her. She brushes herself across smoothly planed abs, finding every little inhale and exhale from Beca serving to push her that much closer. Their eyes are open, though eyelashes flutter often with the ebbing waves, and the contact is intense but easy. As she steadily rolls her hips, Beca is loose beneath her, relaxed and open and so, so beautiful that it makes her heart ache.

(She doesn't think that she'll ever get used to seeing Beca like this, so free and peaceful. Sometimes, if she glances down and isn't expecting it, the sight will make her want to cry.)

Their revelations of love are hushed; they fill the morning air with delicate gasps and soft, barely there whimpers, but each sound sends a rolling breaker of pleasure coasting through both of their bodies. Their rapture comes in soothing, gentle waves, almost like a lullaby. Still, though it is easy and swaying, there is an undeniable layer of _them_ within it, and it only serves to bring them closer to the edge.

Chloe twitches within her body's graceful arc when a thumb brushes softly over her nipple, bites back a heavy groan when Beca's plump lips surround it and draw it in. There is a pause, a slight interlude in their dance as Beca shifts slightly upwards, twists her spine into a position that allows her easier access. An indiscernible mumble escapes Chloe's lips at the feeling of slender fingers dragging through her wet folds, parting her and exposing her to the warm morning air. The heat radiates out, warming the spread of pale flesh below her body, and Beca shudders.

Chloe's gaze flickers down, and she whimpers at the sight of Beca's eyes, so dark and full of love.

"Becs," she whispers out, feeling the love and desire in her spilling over as her body wavers with anticipation. She struggles to find a way to express the words for which her heart never fails to search in these moments, feeling overwhelmed by love and comfort and a deep sense of their position in life being so _right_.

If possible, Beca's eyes darken even more, a faint hint of a laugh buried somewhere in their depths, and she softly affirms, "Chlo." It is spoken as a promise, a reassurance, and it lets Chloe know that she understands what she cannot rearrange her jumbled mind enough to say. She smiles up at her with her eyes, and Chloe lets out a throaty whimper when long fingers glide inside drenched heat, pausing to allow the feeling to sink in.

Even having done this so many countless times, it always takes Chloe a moment to adjust to the emotions that come with the sensation of having Beca so deep inside her body. Mostly, it is not for the pleasure, but for the act of exposing her own vulnerability, of placing her trust so firmly in another being. It's a connection that she doesn't think she'll ever grow tired of experiencing; even if things they don't speak of occur, even if life's chaos readjusts itself to a place that doesn't suit them, she knows that she could never let this feeling go. No matter where life may lead them, she will always return to this.

When she has paused long enough for the feeling to spread to every nerve ending in her body, she reaches down with her own hand, and responds in kind. Beca's thighs twitch when her hands draw nearer, and take a moment to settle when she pushes in, slowly, watching the pleasure play out on her face like watercolors across an artist's canvas. It's fitting, because that's what Beca _is_ to her – art; a beautiful masterpiece that morphs and grows with every stroke of the brush until she is a perfect reflection of color and light and joy. She watches the way her jaw slackens and her eyebrows draw tighter together as she strokes her, feels her body draw her deeper inside, like she wants to consume her and never let the feeling go.

The movement of Beca's fingers inside her is slow, and the feeling drags, a gradual buildup of strength and energy. With each thrust, each shuddering intake of breath, Chloe feels her scattered thoughts fade from her mind and vanish, only to have the space filled with the overflow of the warmth glowing somewhere in her chest. Beca cranes her neck up to place kisses all along the ridges of her abdomen, up the valley between her breasts to her neck. There she lingers, drawing her pulse point between her lips and sucking with enough force to feel, but not hard enough to leave a mark. She marks her all the time – last night, and the other week, and hundreds of times before that, but she holds off. The atmosphere is calm; their breathing rapid but easy among the muted shades of morning light and shadows. An increase of pace builds slowly, and each movement is loving and unhurried.

(Chloe loves when their times together are wild and rough, passionate and needy and full of lust, but there is something about _this_ , about the simple intimacy of hands and mouths and the heaviness of sleep, that she enjoys in an entirely different way.)

Chloe's body jolts when Beca reaches _that_ spot, and she feels her circle an arm around her waist to steady her, splaying her fingers out across her lower back. The mildly possessive move spikes her pleasure, and she bends down to press her lips to Beca's collarbone and drag kisses all along her jawline to the place beneath her ear that never fails to elicit a moan. Sure enough, her ministrations are answered with an expression of quiet pleasure, and she smiles to herself, satisfied.

For what seems like an eternity, they rock against each other, the swell building until it is a force grown beyond their control. Eventually, their perfect dance is broken by their need, but there is no desperation in their movements; only a patient, languid sway of give and response, rock and receive. Chloe's gasps grow thicker and more frequent as Beca's tongue swirls around her pebbled nipples, the hand on her back pressing in with a firmer insistence as the pleasure grows. The cant of Beca's hips increases; her legs lift up to wrap around the thin waist above her, locking at the ankles; she pulls her closer with each shift of their bodies.

Then at last, they seem to be approaching the edge, movement growing unsteady and jerky. Gasps of pleasure intertwine in the air with each touch; languid forms beneath the shadowy light of the early morning bend and quaver. Chloe begins to tremble; Beca's hands on her skin shake with anticipation. In the new light seeping through the curtains, they find each other's eyes, and their gaze locks and holds while they draw each other to the edge of the precipice. The feeling of their eyes connecting in that moment of heightened pleasure nearly does it for Chloe right then.

(As she reaches out, needing to feel grounded, Beca responds by wrapping a strong hand around her own and bringing it up tightly to press against her chest, her expression fierce with trust and love.)

When she beings to curl her fingers up with each stroke, barely brushing that magical spot inside her, Beca's eyes flutter closed, and heavy gasps escape her lips with every movement from Chloe's hand. Curling her body upwards, she wraps her free arm around her and tilts her chin up in desperation. Chloe meets her halfway, and their lips collide in a bruising kiss that almost immediately turns deep and passionate. The pad of Beca's thumb drags across her clit, once, twice, and Chloe's back arches into a perfect bow, pushing her breasts against Beca's and causing their nipples to brush. The pleasure shoots through them both like an electric shock.

Her lips part in a delicate cry when Beca presses down firmly and pulls her down flush against her body to hold her close, and she shakes. Beca gasps a breathy _"_ oh God, _Chlo_ _"_ into her mouth at the sensation of Chloe's fingers curling _just right_ , and they fall apart together in a collision of tangled limbs and bodies that tremble from head to toe.

When the last pleasurable pulses have subsided, leaving them wrapped in their own cocoon of warm bliss, they almost find themselves drifting off once more. Beca cradles Chloe to her side, sticky fingers stroking through the dark locks that spill across her chest and collarbone and tickle the undersides of her breasts.

Chloe lifts her head slightly and drops a light kiss on her lover's collarbone.

"Hey," she whispers, and the bashfulness in her voice brings a smile to Beca's lips.

"Hey," she whispers back, and presses her lips to the taller woman's head. She admires how their fingers lace together on her abdomen; with the flutter of butterflies that she never seems to lose, she notes the way that the bright sunlight catches and glints off the edges of their rings. It never fails to conjure an emotion that she doesn't think she'll ever stop feeling the newness of; even after so many years spent loving each other, she can't shake the all-consuming awe and joy that fills her to the brim with the knowledge that Chloe is really _hers_.

Chloe knows it; they've marveled over it together before – not in words, as some may do, but in their everyday motions and the whispered breaths of pleasure across each other's skin. She doesn't know if she'll ever stop being amazed at the perfection that is Beca. It's almost too lucky for her to believe, and sometimes, on her worst days, she almost feels guilty that something so precious as Beca's love has been entrusted to her imperfect heart.

(In moments like this, nestled close in Beca's arms, she knows that neither of them would have it any other way.)


End file.
